A Candy Cottage in Winter
by Olivia Beige
Summary: Sansa Stark stumbles upon a house made of cakes and candies and biscuits. In the middle of the woods. In winter. (Hansel and Gretel AU)


When Sansa glimpsed the roof, made from cakes with twirling creams and candies gleaming dully in the winter frost, she almost let out a sob of relief.

She must have had. A keening sound very nearby fogged out in front of her, drifting and clinging coldly on her nose. Besides that, Sansa could hear nothing else. Nothing else except for the blood throbbing in her ears, the two black birds startling above her and taking flight, and a singing in the distance.

The singing was almost certainly drifting from the house. It was the only house for leagues around.

Through the thin bald branches raking the sky, Sansa thought she could see a few rows of lemon cakes beside the chimney.

Sansa licked her lips.

The chimney spat out soot.

A flume shortly blew out from the chimney and proceeded to blacken its patch of the winter sky.

Sansa wrinkled her nose. She scowled at the ugly smoke. What if the lemon cakes caught soot?

As if shaken from a doze, Sansa spun around and squinted at the path she had come from.

Nothing but stone and snow amongst the tall dark trees. And Sansa's trail.

Sansa hoped that Jon would be here soon. It was cold, and they only had each other to keep warm. But Jon had insisted that he should cover their tracks for a league or so. What if the Boltons and their hunters had caught up with them?

"Go," her half-brother had insisted, "you must go, Sansa. I'll know how to follow you."

"Why would I leave you alone? No, we must not separate."

They had been under the shelter of boulders last night. Jon had been taking off the last of his bandages. The stab wounds on his chest, Sansa had noted in a faintly horrified way, were not open anymore so there had been no blood to steam in the cold.

Sansa was not clear on what had happened to him with his Black Brothers. Jon had been very quiet since she had met him for the first time in years. All she knew was that they had betrayed him.

Jon had slanted a glance at her. His grey eyes verged on black, especially during a night when they only had had the shattered glimmers of moonlight. Jon's eyes had none of the hesitancy she remembered from their childhood. And even then, Sansa could barely remember too much about Jon. They had rarely played together, although during one of her name days, Sansa remembered Jon shuffling towards her with a doll. And in another distant memory, of Sansa telling him how to talk to a girl he was dancing with.

Instead of hesitancy, there was nothing but guardedness. Sansa liked to think it was guardedness rather than a nothing, a flatness.

No, Sansa had been realizing as each moon passed. No, she didn't truly know her bastard half-brother now. Just as he truly didn't know her. Never close as children, and the years apart a yawn of hurt and of their family's tragedies. Years when Jon had been stabbed several times, and Sansa had escaped from the last of her captors.

But what Sansa knew now was that Jon found comfort in her hands.

"It's so cold," he had often said as he'd prodded at his wounds, and Sansa would lay her hands on them and caress some warmth on Jon.

"How is this?" Sansa had asked that first time.

A shard of moonlight had been on Jon's cheek then, and he had the Stark look that with a jolt, Sansa had realised then that it was a comfort to look at Jon's dark hair, at his grey eyes, at his long Stark face.

"Your hands are warm. I like - thank you."

He'd still looked guarded, and a bit befuddled, but Sansa had felt her frozen cheeks lifting into a smile.

She had not been smiling last night, when Jon had insisted that they should separate.

"It'll be easier, and faster, if I cover alone," Jon had told her. "We talked about how we can find each other."

Sansa had twisted the hem of her fur cloak. She had grown even more afraid. She had spent years separated from her family, and Jon no different.

"If I see danger I'm turning back and meeting you halfway." Sansa was afraid, but she could be brave, too. "Remember our trails."

"Don't worry." There had been a hint of a smile on Jon. "We'll be safe very soon."

They had huddled under their combined furs last night. They had lit no fires as always. Sansa had put her arms around Jon from behind him so that her hands could warm his wounds, because he liked that. And Jon had slept nearest to and facing the edge of their shelter, because Sansa liked to feel like she had a shield.

::::

With mounting awe, Sansa approached the house. Instead of stone and wood, it looked like it was entirely made of rows of cakes, garlands of candies, and stacks of biscuits.

Sansa's mouth was watering as she stood on the front step. It was very tempting, but it was not polite to just pluck off a buttery crumpet from the doorframe.

She needed permission. Still, that butter trickling on the crumpet's curve, golden and almost liquid as if fresh from the kitchen, as if it wasn't winter -

The front door burst open.

Sansa did not startle and stumble, so in this very intense proximity, all her mind could fizzle out was _oohhh, chocolate_.

Sweet, delicious chocolate. Perhaps served in a dainty little tray. Perhaps with fruit tucked between the chocolates. Chopped melons, or those mangoes from Essos. Or perhaps hot chocolate, slowly and thickly licking its way from pot to cup.

Sansa licked her lips.

She hoped she wasn't panting.

When she blinked, it was not chocolate in front of her at all.

It was a lady. A lady with a glorious head of brown curls. Half of it was pulled back by an equally glorious red ribbon. Sansa was almost dazed by the smell of lavender on the lady's hair.

"Oh, sweetling, look at you," the lady cooed. She had intense brown eyes. "You look half-frozen to death, you poor dear. _Do_ come in."

Inside was plush with the smells of firewood and flowers, of butter and baking and books. And of something else entirely strange.

In a rustling of her rich green skirts, the lady ushered Sansa to a chair by the hearth as she briskly dusted snow from Sansa's hair.

"My name is Margaery, sweetling. Do sit - that's it. Wonderful." She lifted her hand and its touch was gentle on Sansa's cheek. Margaery's soft skin had the fragrance of roses, and something else sharper. "Get some warmth on your cheeks and fingers." Her lips curved into a smile, wide and sweet. "I will bring us a tray."

Sansa pulled off her gloves and held her hands by the fire. She glanced around the small room. Flowers in crystal vases. Red and gold curtains with golden lion clasps. On the polished wood of the centre table, there were two pamphlets. One was about embroidery, and the other was about how useless embroidery was.

All of it looked nice and pretty enough. All but for the odd smell. She hoped that she wouldn't be harmed here. She was a guest.

 _And look at the good it did to Mother and to Robb_ , a voice in her mind snarled.

Sansa's gaze darted back to the window. She hoped Jon would arrive soon.

Margaery came swooping back into the room. She set down the tray on top of _1000 Other Pursuits More Worthwhile Than Embroidery_.

Sansa remembered her courtesies. "My name is Sansa. Thank you for inviting me in. You have such a lovely house, I enjoyed looking at the lemon cakes by the chimney."

Margaery's laughter was full-throated. The tails of her big red ribbon quivered amongst her brown curls.

Margaery sat beside her. "This is not really my house."

She must be using some bath salts, Sansa thought. And rose oil to brush her gown. And here Sansa was smelling of musty furs.

There were two pots on the tray. One was plain white porcelain, while the other was spring green painted with golden roses.

Margaery's elbow brushed Sansa's arm as she reached for the plain white pot. "Here, sweetling, have some tea."

"Thank you." The cup was very round, almost the size of a small bowl, larger than Sansa was used to. She held it with both hands.

"Now, this sweet, you must try it. It's something new Cersei's fiddling with. Black sesame seeds embedded with nuts."

With thumb and forefinger, Margaery picked up the sweet from the plate, and with bright eyes noted Sansa's occupied hands.

Before Sansa could even put down her cup, Margaery was already holding aloft the sweet, very near to Sansa's lips.

Sansa stared at it. It looked so delicious, all those tiny black sesame seeds. She looked at Margaery.

Margaery was still smiling. "Go on, sweetling, I don't mind."

Sansa took a careful bite. And oh, it was indeed delicious. She had seldom had sesame seeds, and it tasted so good with a few nuts here and there.

"It's so delicious," Sansa said as she chased the tiny seeds from the corners of her mouth.

Margaery beamed. "Isn't it." She was still holding up the rest of the sesame sweet. "Here's the rest of it, Sansa."

With her teeth, Sansa happily plucked it free from Margaery's fingers.

"How lovely," a voice said.

Sansa turned her head.

A tall woman was approaching them, something like faint derision in her green eyes. Where something strange and sharp clung to Margaery's fingers, this golden-haired woman had the odour of something sour and strange around her.

The sour smell was quickly explained when the woman lifted a crystal glass of wine to her lips. Red wine. Arbor red, perhaps, or Dornish wine.

Margaery's smile never faltered. She gestured to the plain white pot. "Would you care for tea, Mother?"

"I don't care for swill." The woman sat down across from them. The arms of her chair ended with roaring lions. "And how many times have I told you to stop calling me that, girl. You have never loved my sons."

"Should I call you Mrs. Witch, then?"

"I am no one's wife now." The woman, who must be Cersei, leaned back on her chair with careless grace. "I'd prefer if you call me Queen Witch. Better yet, I'd prefer silence. Silence is a gift from the gods, don't you think?"

Witch, thought Sansa. Of course. Only magic would allow a house made of cakes and candies. Sansa's fingers tightened around her cup.

"Singing is also a gift from the gods," Margaery said. "Tommen loved my singing."

Cersei ignored Margaery. Her scornful green eyes turned to Sansa. "And who are you?"

"Sansa, if it please you."

"If it please Your Grace," Cersei corrected. She sipped her wine. "I was queen once. Before the long winter." Whip-sharp, her attention returned to Margaery. "Are you finished feeding this one?"

"Mother," Margaery exclaimed, a sly lilt to her lips. "Sansa is a guest."

Sansa turned to Margaery. "Should I - if the queen is your good-mother, should I call you -"

"Never mind that, sweetling." Margaery held up another sesame sweet to Sansa. "Forgive the queen mother -"

Cersei's mouth thinned.

" - it was painful to lose sons and a kingdom. Here's a sweet, petal."

Sansa bit onto it without question, being so flustered on behalf of the two women.

"There, look at that blush." Margaery's thumb and forefinger moved to gently grip Sansa's chin. The strange and sharp smell hit Sansa again. "You look becoming with red cheeks, Sansa. Won't you agree, Your Grace?"

"Tell us about yourself," Cersei commanded Sansa. "Do you have king's blood?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Somewhat."

"What else?"

"I enjoy songs and singing, Your Grace, and playing the harp. Lemon cakes are my favourite. We had a bard once, who sang about the Knight of -"

Cersei scoffed. "Now you will tell me you dreamed of being queen."

"Oh, Mother," chided Margaery, "Sansa's beautiful enough to be queen."

"I am also a late bloomer, or so Father and Mother told me."

She was. Amongst her siblings, she was the latest bloomer.

"A true beauty, nonetheless," Margaery said with another grin for Sansa.

"Well. I suppose you're not one of Robert's get. With your hair."

Sansa did her best to stop herself from glancing at the window. Jon had said that though it was winter, he could soak in the summer warmth of Sansa's hair and eyes. He'd said that with a lock of Sansa's hair twirled around his finger, their breaths coming in excited puffs and warming each other's open mouths -

No. No. Sansa shook her head. She sipped her tea. Surely, surely, the old gods had cursed them now.

Half a curse, Sansa had prayed with each wet kiss she had planted all over Jon's Stark face. Half a curse only, please. For he was only her half-brother, and all she had, and the gods had cursed her enough.

"Are you deaf, girl?" Cersei's voice floated back. "I knew there was something I dislike about you."

"Please forgive me," Sansa murmured. "I had a long walk."

Margaery reached for the spring green pot painted with golden roses. "Oh, you poor dear. You must be so very tired. Her Grace only asked if you're all alone."

Sansa thought of Jon. For the first time in ages, Sansa was not alone. And they had promised to stay alive to search for what became of Arya and Bran and Rickon.

"Yes, Your Grace. I have yet to find my family."

"You must think us strange, sweetling, being ungrateful for still having each other as family." Margaery clucked as she began to pour for her own dainty cup. "In truth I respect Her Grace my good-mother -"

The stench of what was pouring out of Margaery's tea pot pummelled Sansa. It was thick, arterial red. Sharp.

Margaery's little finger was slightly raised as she sipped from her dainty rose-rimmed cup. When her eyes met Sansa's, she put down her cup on its equally dainty saucer.

"Oh, sweetling. It does look like improperly cooked tomato sauce," Margaery laughed, "but it's only beet juice."

But it _was_ blood.

The sharp scent of it clamoured up Sansa's nostrils. The same sharp scent she had smelled amongst the rose on Margaery. A sudden hate on how Margaery kept calling her sweetling surged up in Sansa.

 _I am not a stupid little girl,_ snarled a voice in her mind.

Sansa looked at Cersei. The woman was now swirling the sour-smelling wine in her cup. There was something else strange about her, too, although not a sharpness like Margaery's. Magic, yes, but - if all Cersei did was to cook cakes and candies and bread -

"I am sorry to hear you're alone, sweetling," Margaery was saying. "I appreciate my good-mother's skills with the cauldron and oven -"

Cersei cut in with, "Do stop this sentimental nonsense." She barely glanced at Sansa as she said, "She has her uses, I suppose."

"Her Grace likes that I am a strong woman." Margaery smiled, and cupped Sansa's chin again.

Sansa flinched back, her nostrils flaring.

Margaery's smile dimmed. Slowly, she lowered her hand and searchingly flicked her gaze between Sansa's eyes, as if seeing her for the first time again.

"Would you like another sesame sweet, darling?" Margaery took a sip from her cup. A smile returned to her eyes.

Sansa let out a slow breathe. She gripped at her half-empty cup.

Last night Jon had said, "We'll be safe very soon." Very soon, yes. Very soon meant tonight.

The moon would shine fully tonight.

Sansa hoped these women would not break guest right on her. She might be a late bloomer, but when she did turn into a wolf Ramsay Bolton did not last long enough to gasp in alarm.

A lot of people thought they could hold Sansa captive, then the last of the Starks, to study the dormant potential in her human body. But now Sansa would not let herself be trapped anywhere, no matter how nice and pretty the place was.

If dainty Margaery with her ostentatious red ribbon and Cersei with her roaring lion armrests attempted to break guest right - well. Sansa would have no choice.

But Sansa also never had to face a witch and a vampire. Alone. She had to keep her hope up. Jon would smell the distinct trail she had left in the snow. And then they would be two wolves instead of one.

"Yes, please, another of the sesame sweet," Sansa said in her most pleasant and courtly voice. "They are ever so delicious."

Cersei's eyes rolled up, briefly landed on Sansa and appeared to see something so unlikeable, and rolled down to her wine cup.

The quirk on Margaery's lips was almost knowing.

This time Sansa picked up a black sesame sweet on her own, and made herself smile.

 _fin_


End file.
